


Full House

by Nope



Category: 221B Baker Towers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:06:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21907204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nope/pseuds/Nope
Summary: "Who are you?" is the first and perhaps hardest question to answer.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 28
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Full House

**Author's Note:**

  * For [keerawa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keerawa/gifts).



"I was thinking of maybe moving out," John says into the plate of steamed rice, carrots and lamb he's been turning over but not eating for the last few minutes.

Matteen brays laughter, jerking in his wheelchair, and John's mother clicks her tongue. "Nadia! Nadira! Stop messing with your brother."

The twins drop their hands into their laps and look up with identical innocent faces. 

"We're helping him eat," Nadia says primly, eight going on eighty, speaking Dari to her mother's Pashto, to John's English. 

His grandmother chuckles from her chair at the end of the table, and it's John's father's turn to cluck his tongue.

"Don't encourage them, mother!"

"No!" Nadira wails. "Bibijan!" she appeals to her grandmother. "Encourage us!" 

Nadia chimes in with a rather smug, "Kids need encouragement to grow up big and strong and--"

"Children," their mother sternly interrupts, "need to not play with their food and do their chores." 

"And not wear headphones at the table," John's father adds pointedly, waving his knife at Kinah sitting as far as she can from the others in the crowded room. "Eating is family time. You can't hear us with those things in all the time. What sort of example are you setting for your sisters?"

"I hear fine, baba."

"Deaf at sixteen, and who will marry you then?"

"John's moving out," Kinah says loudly.

"Thinking of. Thinking of!" John tries and is drowned out by his mother snapping, "Don't be ridiculous!" and his father scoffing, "In this economy?" and Nadia and Nadira both wailing, which sets Matteen off, and there are long minutes of chaos until something approaching quiet happens again. Kinah gives him a smug look at John flips her off under the table.

"You need the space," John tries.

His mother pulls an injured face. "We fit fine."

"Matt needs space and time to do his homework in. Somewhere quiet he can go, to concentrate."

"We're quiet!" Nadia insists and Nadira puts a finger to her lips and loudly shushes them. A second later Matt does the same and then all three are shushing each other.

"And it would be cheaper for you," John tries over this.

"Money!" It's his father's turn to look injured. "You think we care about money? We have shelter, we have food, we have a family. All you need, right here."

John opens his mouth to point out that he paid for the lamb they are currently eating, closes it again. "I can get a place closer to work, stop paying for the bus so much, waste less time travelling. And I can come back on weekends or whenever I can, if you need me. I can babysit."

"I don't need a babysitter," Kinah whines.

John is about to flip her off again when he realises that's an argument in his favour, and runs with it. "Exactly. Kinah can look after Matt and the twins. She's old enough." Kinah makes an inarticulate noise that's part pride and part rage. "And it's not like I'm leaving the country or anything."

"It's about time you married," his grandmother says proudly and John sighs.

"I'm not getting married, gran. I'm just thinking of moving--"

"Is it girls? It's girls, isn't it? You want somewhere to bring girls back to." His father starts getting angry, louder with every word. "I haven't bowed and scraped to get you all a better life here just to have you go and get some harlot pregnant and--"

"Dad. Dad. Dad! Baba!" John insists over the crescendo. "It's not about girls!" Kinah giggles and John hisses "nor boys" at her. "I'm always responsible. Always," he insists at his mother's look. "If I'd gone to uni--"

"So this is our fault? Because we don't have thousands and thousands to waste--"

"I didn't say that! And it's not a waste, but I didn't say that. All, all -- no! All I am saying is that I would have already moved out for school. Moved out years ago! This is no different! How is it different?"

Before his father can reply, his mother says, in a small voice, "You hate us."

"Mum!" John rubs at his face. "Why do you always do this?"

"Ja--"

"It's John!" he yells. Matteen moans and John attempts an apologetic smile.

"Why do you insist on that ridiculous name?"

"Why is our surname 'Watson'?" John snaps right back.

In the sudden silence, the knock on the flat door is thunderous.

"I've got it," Kinah yells, already out of her seat.

John sits back in his, says "Sit!" to the twins who are likewise halfway up. Matteen takes advantage of the distraction to take a big handful of his dinner and shove it in his mouth, chewing loudly and happily. His mother fusses at him with a tea cloth passing for a napkin. His father subsides into his own chair, glowering, slowly building steam. 

There's a mumble of voices from the door, and then Kinah is bouncing back to the table to announce, in English because she's oh so funny, "John, your girlfriend's here."

" _Boy_ friend. Don't misgender people." John ignores the way Kinah mouths 'misgender' incredulously. "Also, Sherlock's not my boyfriend."

"Our surname is Watson?" his grandmother says, face scrunched up in confusion.

"'ight?" Sherlock asks, lingering awkwardly in the doorframe, hood up, hands in pockets, hunched in on himself. Anyone else, John would think they were reacting to the tension in the room, but this is just poorly held back impatience. Sherlock's head twitches towards the door. "Comin'?"

He looks Sherlock up and down and blurts out "You're covered in blood," before he can stop himself.

"'snot mine," Sherlock says absently, like this should matter, like his sleeves being splattered from cuffs to shoulders with someone else's vital body fluids is perfectly acceptable couteur. "Need your help, yeah?"

"We're having dinner," his father starts, and John gets up.

"I'm done," he says, raising his voice over his mother who is asking everyone, "Blood? Did he say blood?"

Sherlock is already edging back out of the room. John follows. Matteen's wheelchair makes a strangled screeching noise when he tries to roll after, and John turns back long enough to push him back to the table. "Eat your dinner, Matty. Dia, Dira, help him out. Properly, mind you. I saw what you were doing before."

"Yes, John", they chorus, which he knows means generally about nothing, but he'll take it.

"I wasn't done talking," his father tries.

"Why doesn't Sherlock join us?" his mother cuts in, like Sherlock isn't already out in the hall. "Kinah, grab the stool from the kitchen, we can squeeze him in. Nadira, get another plate out."

"I don't think my surname is Watson," his grandmother puts in, agitated now. "That doesn't seem right at all."

"I'm off out," John yells, grabbing his coat and on the other side of the door before he even starts pulling it on, hearing Nadia scream-sing something and Matteen's braying laugh. Sherlock is already half way down the stairs, dropping two at a time, and John pounds after him, faster and faster across each landing and they jump the whole last flight, laughing out into the cold grimy lights of the city night.

**༚#༚#༚**

The "help" is a scrawny buzzcut white kid who doesn't look a day over fourteen nor much like he'll see more days past this one. He's obviously the source of the blood, though its hard to tell cuts from bruising which are both veering on the catholic in the sense of "universal" and in the sense of "maybe get a priest not a doctor". There has been an attempt at first aid, but it appears to have mostly involved sticking a blanket on the kid and plying him with alcohol, which:

"Vodka?"

"'sall I had, John," Sherlock says.

"And you just left 'im!"

"Alive, i'n'e?"

Which. Yes. But still: "Christ, Sherlock."

"Just get him so he'll talk."

"What the fuck happened?" John asks, but he's already doing his work, coat off now, proper assessment this time, clinical, detached, not just holy fuck someone went to town on his kid with, what? Definitely boots, judging by the shape of the indents and the floating ribs. He orders Sherlock to boil water and hunt down clean cloths to make bandages from. The kid's hands are a mess, but the fingers are only dislocated, not broken. The left wrist is actually broken but, so far as he can tell without x-rays, it's clean. Properly strapped and taken care of for eight weeks, it might be fine. The cuts are the worst, grit filled and already reddening with infection. John absently notes they mostly seem to be in pairs an inch or so apart while he's cleaning them out and somewhere in that process the kid comes to and starts swearing up a storm in what starts out sounding vaguely Russian, wanders through Eastern Europe, squats in Poland for a particularly virulent treatise on the state of John's parents and parentage and finally settles into English for a plaintive, "Fuck dis, man."

"You need an actual hospital," John tells him and then curses when the kid tries to get up. "Fuck's sake!"

Sherlock leans over his shoulder to ask, "Where exactly was you attacked?" When both John and the kid look around at him, he makes an exasperated noise. "It was obvious from the scene that you were attacked elsewhere, but your backtrail was erased when you crossed the main street at rush hour; I need details."

"He needs painkillers, anti-inflammatories, clean bandages every few days, fluids -- you ain't even listening, bruv," John complains.

"No hospitals," the kid says. "You get me?"

"Yes, yes, yes," Sherlock waves this away. "You were trolling, got attacked by a man -- possibly a very tall woman, but the strength and type of the attack makes that unlikely, so a man, above average height, well built. What else?" 

He clicks his fingers in front of the kid and John bats Sherlock's hand away. "You even ask my man his name?"

"Dunt seem relevant," Sherlock says at the same time the kid says "Pash."

"Pasha?"

"Just Pash, innit."

"I'm John. This is--"

"Everyone knows Sherly," Pash scoffs. Behind the swelling his eyes are clear, his words no more mushy than the jaw doesn't account for; the kid's lucked clear of a concussion somehow. "Nobs for the rotters."

"Only when they useless," Sherlock says, unoffended. "Which is always. Someone is targeting young men on the game. Official word is it ain't happening. No pattern. No pattern my arse," he adds to John, his sudden grin wild and scathing. "You only gotta look, right? No one ever just _looks_."

John really hopes Pash is older than he looks, doesn't ask. "Did you see who attacked you?"

Pash starts a movement that might have been a shrug but just turns into an audible wince and anguished freeze. John waves Sherlock quiet before he can start his questions back up, and leads Pash through some slow breaths until the kid can unstick without crying.

"A client," Sherlock immediately jumps in.

"Right dutty geezer, flashin' the cash 'round the Joiners. Not a regular, but. Man's gotta make rent, innit. Din't see his face clear. No gaff, so we went out back and I'm getting his trous down for a bit of the usual and the fucker jumps me. Would've been right merked but some shitfaced gyaldem stumbled over us tryna get to the bus stop and I fucking kecked it across Oxford, lost 'im in the crowds. "

"And then curled up on Hanway and passed out," Sherlock tells John, abandoning the conversation for the crate on which his notes and maps are stacked. "The Joiners' Arms fits the pattern. Did you see the mud?"

John starts to ask what mud and then realises Sherlock is talking about the boot prints on Pash's top and instead starts to say something about, he doesn't know, because it's not like Sherlock is going to be concerned with injuries as anything except evidence.

"The imprint says steel-capped, military style but not actual military, size eleven, worn by someone who walks regularly and on the outside of their heels. The weapon -- perhaps a walking cane?" Sherlock considers this for less than a second. "Nah, wrong profile, innit. And why the blades for?"

He goes back to the papers, muttering to himself. John decides to react to this by going through Sherlock's stash while he's distracted. There's some actual medication among the narcotics and things he doesn't recognise, and some narcotics that will work as medication because Sherlock definitely does not need to be on opiates right now.

"Take 'em no less than four hours apart, right? And not till the alcohol's gone off you. Wrist in the sling till I say otherwise. Same with the ribs. Everything else, you change when it gets dirty, or every other day, you can." This gets him a sceptical look, and it's not like John doesn't follow, but he still sighs. "You gotta keep 'em clean or you'll get sick, right? They come up red, puffy, just pus bursting out of you all over. Gets in your blood, travels all round your body, fucks up everything else. Organs. Limbs. Rot right off ya, bruv."

"Fuck off they will," Pash says, but he looks the right kind of scared now, so John just scoffs and lets it go.

"You can sleep here for a bit," John starts and Sherlock says "No, he can't," without looking up from his work, and John just repeats, "You can sleep here for a bit."

"Thanks, Doc," Pash says, begrudgingly.

John scowls. "Don't call me 'Doc'."

"Whatever." Pash closes his eyes, melts into the sofa. It's gonna need steam cleaning. New rug over it at least. Pash's lips twitch up, an almost smirk. "Doc."

"Fuck off," John says without rancour, and isn't surprised to find the kid's already all but passed out. He stretches the kinks out, picking his coat up and wandering over to examine Sherlock's wall of crazy. Deductions.

"He was hit--"

"With something cylindrical and heavy, yes," Sherlock says. "And sharp at the end."

"--by someone trying to kill him," John finishes pointedly.

Sherlock's gaze flicks his way briefly, something almost a frown wrinkling his nose. "It's not personal."

"For you or the killer?"

"The killer's attacking a what, not a who. Personal identity isn't important--"

"For you or the killer?" John repeats, and Sherlock scoffs and turns away. "Whoever went at 'im, angle of those scratches, did it leftie." John yanks his coat back on. "I gotta go. Work."

"Safe," Sherlock says dismissively, not looking up from his own work.

John slams the door on the way out.

**༚#༚#༚**

Saint Bartholomew's Teaching Hospital isn't a charity but it does hold some charitable individuals -- most obviously Molly for putting up with Sherlock wandering in and out of the county morgue as he likes, but also the bursar that lets John use the library and sit in on classes, provided ninety percent of his time is mopping floors and cleaning walls and windows and stairs and ceilings and whatever else can be foisted on him. Maximal work, minimum wage; the capitalists dream for those without capital, right? Fuck Boris. And fuck the medical students too. Nobody should have to scrub gall bladder off lights a good fourteen feet in the air.

Still, a job is a job, and they don't grow on trees, do they? And it is schooling, of a sort, and that doesn't grow on trees either. So John scrubs and scrubs and scrubs and ignores the side looks and snide comments and the little shits ordering him around and tries to feel grateful as the hours drip away. Scrubs until mop melts away into pen, floor into books, reading into thoughts into notes as small as possible to not waste paper. Half-dead but pushing it through because a job is a job and schooling is schooling and something is always better than nothing.

Somehow the sun is impossibly bright. The air is dusty, the air and the ground and his clothes and his skin, but everything is bright, luminous, suffused, incandescent. He is too young to know these words yet, not even double digits, but he will, he will make himself know them, force his tongue around unnatural consonants and vowels despite his teachers, master of his own body. He is too young for the weapon pressed against his shoulder, for the bruises it will leave on his skin, in his heart, but he will learn this, too. He is too young for the school yard, but this is school too, right?

It is summer in Kabul and here, and in the dust and heat and the light someone is telling him where to hold, to brace, to squeeze, laughing at his cries because it's so loud and hits so hard, telling him it doesn't matter that the rifle is as big as him, that the communists won't care, the mujahideen won't care, the Americans won't care, that no one will care, and he's running, now, so hard and fast as the planes scream by and dust turns into fire in his lungs and houses melt and cars over turn and bloom and burst and John wakes. Frozen in place. Swallowing his scream.

He's in the student library in St Bart's. He can feel paper and leather under his cheek. He's fallen asleep over the books again. When he puts his hands on the table to push himself up, he feels gun stock and has to stare at his fingers until he's sure he's only holding wood. Memories can't hurt you. Well, no, they can, but they're still just memories. He's not that boy. His leg aches but he tells himself that is just a memory too, that his knee will support him when he gets up, that there's no metal shards to pull from his leg, just cramped muscles to be worked out. To his surprise, it actually helps.

Notes collected, books returned, bundled again up against the cold, John steps out of the library and finds Sherlock standing in the opposite doorway, exiting the anatomy lab. Molly must have let him in again. Good old reliable Molly. John starts to say something, a generic wagwan or a basic grunt of acknowledgement, not an invite to a conversation exactly, just, so, you're here, and I'm here, how about that. But then Sherlock is stepping back to let his companion out first, all charcoal suit and pink feathers and bouffant black curls so thick they have to be a wig. 

But it's Moriarty, so maybe John thinking it's a wig is today's trick.

"I'll call you," Sherlock says, looking at John, talking to Moriarty.

"Certainly, darling." Moriarty's fingertips linger for a moment between the open zippers of Sherlock's jacket. Moriarty's eyes are also on John. He's popular, yay. "Always a pleasure. Master Watson." 

John says nothing. He's a rock. A grey stone in the river, smooth in the flow.

Moriarty's smile widens, just enough to notice, but the only further comment is a smug saunter out through a Staff Only door. John sneers at the closing glass because, fuck it, he's earned at least one childish moment.

"John," Sherlock says.

Nothing follows it. Not, "I didn't know you were here", or "I was in the morgue because" or "I was talking to Moriarty because" or "I was looking for you" or anything. Just his name.

"I'm going home," John says and when Sherlock starts saying "Pash is still," corrects, "To my parents place. I gotta go. Even the night buses don't run forever."

He could follow Moriarty out, but then he would be following Moriarty, so he takes the long way around, ignoring Sherlock saying his name, just listening to the squeak of his trainers on the marble floor, nothing else. From the front steps, John sees the bus turning the far corner and runs across the road, glad for the excuse for motion, beating the bus there by seconds, dodging around an angry TfL agent who looks a half-second from saying "kids these days" to get on and not even arguing when the bus driver makes him swipe his card again, though he knows he's going to get double charged. Just finds a seat and presses his head against the glass, feels the vibration of the streets and thinks of nothing as hard as he can.

Matteen is waiting for him when he lets himself in. Not awake, of course, but there in the entrance in his wheelchair that squeaks and jerks and catches when John tries to ease it back because, of course. Of course it does. And Matt is an awkward dead weight, but this John has had lots of practice it, so he steadily manoeuvres his brother into his arms and then into his bed, carefully tucking him in. All the lights are off. The apartment is as close to silent as it ever gets, reduced to banging pipes and traffic and the faint sound of the neighbours that never sleep.

John kicks off his own shoes and climbs onto his bed.

**༚#༚#༚**

The flickering four a.m. street light slips through the gap above the blanket fixed across the windows as curtain and spreads itself across the cracks in the ceiling. They look huge like this, long smears of shadows, but when John lifts a hand from the top bunk he can feel only the thin edge. His socked feet escape the tangle of woven blankets as he moves, dangle off the far edge. Matt snorts below him. John closes his eyes again, but he doesn't lower his hand despite the paint flecks his explorations are bringing down.

The first time he meets Moriarty, the other is wearing glittery moisturiser, not the cheap kind Kinah nabs from Superdrug which John thinks is probably mostly plastic, but the kind with actual specks of gold in it. It's noticeable because of the way Moriarty arches into the light, posturing like a dancer in sprayed-on jeans and spider-web top, but mostly because Moriarty's hands have left blotches of light over Sherlock, between the scars and scratches and bites. They don't kiss goodbye, but Moriarty touches Sherlock's neck with a proprietary ease that sets John on edge before sauntering off the estate.

"You a queer, then, bruv," John says, just for something to say, not judgemental like.

Sherlock looks almost disappointed. "Don't be boring, John."

And John, who understands even this early the itch climbing under Sherlock's skin, tells him instead about feet missing from Saint Bart's, and they're off, the moment put behind but never quite forgotten. John sees Moriarty again a dozen times that he knows of, in furs, in dresses, jeans and suits, in bonnets and berets and wigs and weaves, before he works out that they're all the same person, that, yes, Sherlock has a string of lovers, but it's all just a masquerade, identities pulled on and off as easily as their clothes, and, anyway, Sherlock's real love is always the chase.

Sherlock says, "It's just business, innit," and John knows he is lying but he doesn't know if Sherlock knows he's lying, so he doesn't say anything.

Matty starts snoring below him like a cartoon train, all choo choo choo, and John is startled into a laugh. He drops his hand, rolling over and curling up into a tight ball of body and blankets and somewhere between one breath and the next, sleep finally takes him.

**༚#༚#༚**

John wakes to real sunlight, the complaints of the twins and Matt whimpering. His breath is visible. Heating's out again. He rolls over and just manages to turn falling off the bed into something like a jump down. His ridiculous struggles to get free of the blankets cheer Matt up a bit at least, enough that he can change and dress his brother with relative ease. He manages to get one shoe on before Nadira bursts in, wailing, and its fifteen minutes of "there, there" and brushing out the long dark waves of her hair and braiding it in a variety of styles before he gets a chance to put the other one on.

Kinah is having a loud conversation, or, rather, he can hear her monologue with pauses in that might be waits for a response, and the occasional single syllable that might actually be one. While putting Matteen in his chair, John leans around to peek, and sighs.

"How long has Sherlock been here?" John asks Nadira, who shrugs.

"Whole time," she says. "Can you put the cartoons on?"

"Go ask mum," he says.

"She'll just say no," Nadira complains, but she goes out ahead of them while John waggles Matt's chair until it decides to actually roll.

Everyone looks up when they come in. Sherlock's gaze flicks across Matt without slowing and settles on John with intent. "John."

"Still working the case?" John asks with a little surprise. He assumes Sherlock hasn't slept, although its hard to tell because Sherlock always somehow manages to look a little grey. Maybe it's city camouflage, like the feral pigeons. "And you need me, yeah."

"Yes," Sherlock says in that clipped, annoyed tone he gets when people say the obvious. Which John is not admitting to often doing on purpose just to wind him up.

"Are you sure you're not dating?" Kinah asks in Pashto.

"No," John says in kind and then correctly interpreting her look before she can speak corrects himself to, "No, we're not dating. And, yes, I am sure."

In English, Kinah says, "I was just telling Sherlock about how our English teacher stole the school trip funds to--"

"You don't know that she did that," John interrupts. "Don't spread rumours, you ain't got facts, you get me?"

"'If you haven't got the facts'," Kinah corrects snottily, like John hasn't read over every essay she's ever written.

"Then either," he says, and tries to turn back to Sherlock, but his father interrupts them all by coming in grumbling.

"Says the service fee went up last month, says there was a letter. I didn't see a letter? Did you see a letter?"

John doesn't say, it's probably in that pile under the fruit bowl with the other unpaid bills you're too proud to look at. He does start searching his pockets, so when his father turns his way to start "You owe", he's already got money to hold out.

"Thirty quid, all I have," John says, and he was going to blow Sherlock off, but now he really needs to get out of here, so he ignores whatever his father is saying and hustles Sherlock towards the front door. It opens as they get there, his mother carrying an empty casserole dish -- she's clearly been feeding the neighbours again, which John both understands and resents in equal measure -- and frowning at him. It's not the razor once over of Sherlock's scan, but it sees enough.

"You were wearing that yesterday," his mother says. "Did you sleep in your clothes? How do you expect to live alone if you are going to sleep in your clothes? I won't be there to wash and clean and iron for you!"

"You mean I won't be," Kinah says, an unfortunate shade too loud for her own sake, but good for John's, who takes the opportunity to shove Sherlock out the door while Kinah and his mother start fighting.

"Fam," Sherlock says, in what John assumes is an attempt at a conciliatory tone but he's met Mycroft Holmes and he's fairly certain Sherlock has no idea what family is, so it rings false.

"Let's just get out of here, yeah?"

They start heading down the stairs, the silence between them thickening until, finally, Sherlock blurts, "Your neighbour had a baby girl recently." John glances at him and without further prompting Sherlock lists, "Formula boxes in the trash for your floor; marketing mail for baby gear in the mailbox in the lobby; your mother came back smelling of baby powder--"

John grins. "You sniffed my mum, bruv?"

Sherlock ignores this entirely. "--and there are scrape marks on the door frame and tread marks in the hall that match the pram chained to the bottom of the stairs."

John tries not to frown, but he's been up and down those stairs, like, a lot, and he doesn't remember a pram. His inner Sherlock pops up to comment on how he sees but does not observe. He flips his inner Sherlock off.

His outer Sherlock continues. "The pram has pink straps, set to the smallest size. So. Could be a small boy, but most likely a girl."

"Because the straps are pink, innit."

"Because girl babies tend to be smaller than boy babies," Sherlock says and then, a little reluctantly, "and because the straps are pink, yeah."

"Like. Ninety percent of what you do is just guessing with style, bruv." John chuckles.

"Fuck off," Sherlock says, but the corners of his mouth twitch up.

"Yeah, yeah," John concedes. "What we do for this case, bruv?"

**༚#༚#༚**

The answer to that involves a lot of travel. Sherlock has an itemised list -- in his head, though John imagines Sherlock would have an actual list on yellow lined paper with nice neat checkboxes if it wasn't inconvenient -- of people who might know or might have seen something related to the missing rent boys. (Do people still say "rent boys"?) This requires running around town, which isn't doing much for his oyster card, or possibly for his time not being in jail given Sherlock's tendency to treat Tube barriers as a parkour exercise.

After the first two stops, in which Sherlock dismisses one witness immediately as useless and berates the second for not seeing across a street clearly while high, at night, and talking to a client, John starts taking over. He doesn't mind letting people ramble, learning a bit about their life, sometimes offering a little help but mostly just being there to listen. And it's not all ramble; if he keeps one eye on Sherlock, he can tell when something has been said that's struck a chord, and uses that to know when to push a little.

Something of a pattern begins to emerge. The number of missing is at least six, and John complains for an entire uncomfortably crowded section of the District line about how six people, six kids can go missing close together and nobody is out screeching from the rooftops. All guys, all young, all on the game, all last seen with a client, or at least having told someone they'd picked a client up. Nobody could really say what the client looked like, only that they hadn't had a car, at least not nearby. And the pick-up spots are all places with lots of foot traffic, or known trolling spots. Except, if that is a pattern, the pattern is just sex work, so have they really learned anything?

"We've narrowed it down, yeah," Sherlock says when John asks and then flat out refuses to explain what has been narrowed down to what by what. "In my head, innit. Working it."

Two of the missing were described by their friends as nice guys. Three of them were described by their friends as needy assholes. One of them manages to be in both categories and when John glances at Sherlock and back at their latest interview subject, Allie, and says, "I know exactly what you mean," her laugh takes years off her.

"His step-dad kicked him out, day Josh turned eighteen. Said Josh wasn't real family, needed to find someone else to scrounge off of. Josh was still in school, then, last year of sixth form. Fucked up his A-levels something proper, uni wouldn't take him." She shakes her head sadly, sucks hard on her cigarette and coughs out smoke. "Showed up on me doorstep with everything he owned in the world and it all fit in a kid's backpack with space to spare. Heartbreaking, really."

"Went off the rails?"

"And then some." Allie laughs again, but it's sharper this time, a little bitter, and she jerks her head like she's startled herself with the sound of it. "I mean, he tried. All that job seeker's, universal benefit nonsense. I mean, I kept him off the hard stuff, and who doesn't like a drink?" 

Sherlock twitches but doesn't answer.

"But we'd go to these parties and he'd, just. Everything his step-dad hated, he'd throw himself at. Say whatever he wanted to whoever he wanted, damn the consequences. Fight anyone who wanted to lay down. Go home with two, three, four guys in one night, get up and do it again the next day. Then someone must have told him how he could turn his new hobby into a bit of an earner, 'cause he started having rent money for me, which was great, and coming home with bruises, which wasn't."

"Where was his patch?" John asks.

"He worked the common, down past the bus stop, where the smokers go." Allie chuckles. "Josh like to say he offered them a fag and a fag; thought that was fucking hilarious. No one else did, but that didn't matter to Josh." She sighs. "I told him, you're gonna say that to the wrong person one day. And I guess he did, because I haven't seen a trace of him for weeks. Told the police, but they didn't do shit."

"He have any enemies? Someone who wanted his patch maybe?"

"Not that I know of. I mean, yeah, he got into it with people, but never, like, repeats, you know?" Allie shrugs. "I've seen him drinking with guys he was punching in the street hours before. He got into it with some of the protestors at the mosque, middle class white power types, but, I mean, so did dozens of people. They all got booked for disturbing the peace, nothing else came of it. I guess there was the preacher dude..."

She trails off thoughtfully, working her cigarette down to a glowing filter.

"Preacher?" John eventually prompts.

"Hellfire and brimstone, we're all going to hell because of the liberals and the gays, street preacher type. Started off up Trafalgar way and kept getting moved on by the police for putting off the tourists until he got down to us. You know, opposite Debenhams, when it was still there. Amen Corner we started calling it." 

John shoots Sherlock a quelling glance, knowing he's just about to point out the real Amen Corner was near Saint Paul's off Ave Maria Lane. If those can get their names from marching monks, why can't this one? Names should fit.

"Preacher liked to scream into his mic, 'cause I guess it wasn't like anyone need to hear his words or anything. Josh liked to heckle him, said the guy would literally froth. They got into it so often I actually asked Josh if the guy was his step-dad, but he said no, and I don't think he was lying." She shrugs, dropping her cigarette and grinding it under her heel. "Preacher's still there most mornings. Listen, my break is almost over."

"Yeah," says John. "No worries."

"You find Josh--" She breaks off, shakes her head. "Nah. You won't. Not in any way I'd like."

Sherlock has clearly decided the interview was over, because he's already heading off down the street. John manages at least something like a goodbye, which Allie waves off, vanishing back into Sainsbury's for the rest of her shift. John hurries after Sherlock.

"What did you think of that, then?"

"We'll try the next person on the list."

"I fancy this preacher for this. He sounded full on Jesus freak."

"Not relevant," Sherlock says.

John has to lengthen his stride to keep up, knee complaining. "It would fit, wouldn't it? You said the guy walks a lot. A street preacher has, y'know, streets."

Sherlock shakes his head. "Stand still, shout loud."

"About how we're all immoral degenerates who are going to burn in the fire of hell?" John ignores the way Sherlock is still shaking his head, increases speed to stay alongside. "That kind all booky, yeah. Preachin' clean and doin' dirty on the down low, innit." 

"No. Wrong."

"Man sees Pash, one hand wants some business, other well shook; snaps like a twig, tries to beat the sin out."

"Wrong. Wrong. Wrong!" Sherlock yells coming to an abrupt halt. "Think about it! Where are we? Think about the crowds, John. How does the preacher get heard? Needs equipment. Equipment means van. Preacher steps, street, van, street, van. It doesn't fit the evidence! Evidence, then conclusion! Basic deduction, John. Basic!"

John lifts both hands in surrender. "Breathe, bruv. Just trying to help. Work the case."

"You're not me," Sherlock complains. "Stop trying to be me. Be you."

John lowers his hands, tries not to clench fists. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." Sherlock's stopped meeting his eyes again. Frustration has turned into, what, something else at least.

"It meant something or you wouldn't have said it, bruv," John says, an ache curling in his belly. "So tell me what you mean."

"I do deductions, yeah."

"And I don't," John scoffs. "So why am I even here, Sherlock? You just need someone to be smart at, that it?"

Sherlock shifts restlessly. "People respond better to you than me."

An outraged noise escapes John. "So I'm, what, your emotional guide dog?!"

"It saves time," Sherlock says and rocks back a little to avoid John's punch. "You drop your shoulder a little when you--"

"Oh, shut up. Just shut up!" John growls, scrubbing at his head. "You're a real asshole, yeah? Like, I get that you don't mean, maybe, half of it, but you're a fucking genius, bruv. Your brain's mad wavey. You could fake being human for ten minutes if you tried, I fucking know you can. You and Moriarty, I've seen you, turn it on and off like a fucking tap. I'm not you? Who the hell are you?! Christ, who the fuck am I, to stand here for this?"

"You're John." Sherlock just looks confused, confused a maybe a little sad but also impatient, because, of course, the case. The fucking case.

"Fuck off out of it," John says miserably, and sods off to find the nearest bus stop.

**༚#༚#༚**

The nearest bus stop isn't all that near or all that useful and by the time he's climbing on one to head into the centre and better luck, most of his anger has bled away. He barely notices the tiny old white lady clutching her bag tight as he shuffles up the aisle. People avoid the row with the emergency exit door, but it's only on the one side of the bus, so he sits on the other, snatching a quick look around. There's a transport officer at the rear, cap down over his face, and John carefully hunkers down in his seat, turning his own face to the window, not confrontational, not suspicious. The glass is cool against his forehead and also vibrating in a way he can feel in his teeth; he sits there thinking about that for a few minutes and nothing else.

It's funny. Now it's gone, he doesn't even know why he got so mad, so fast. John knows what Sherlock is like, the ways Sherlock is special in the literal meaning and also the other, that has always seemed disrespectful and demeaning in its forced positivity and failure to understand that trying to get through life as best you can is a universal need. And then he tries not to laugh at himself, because his brain is three steps from "stay woke, bruv" territory and not anywhere near where he was trying to be. John knows Sherlock, is the point. Sherlock is a mad asshole genius with over-stimulation issues.

And now he's making excuses again. Fuck's sake, John.

There's movement in the glass and he realises the transpo is by his chair. He resolutely does not look around, but it doesn't matter. The guy is just reaching up to press the stop button. The bus pulls to a halt against an old "Don't Throw Migrants Under The Bus" campaign advert. Fat chance of that, John thinks, and looks away, careful not to lift his head up until the transpo is off the bus, looking back out as they start moving again. The transpo has seen the sign too, doesn't seem pleased. Does anyone?

You see, his inner Sherlock says patiently, but you don't observe.

See what? John thinks. Except. Except he did see. Tall. Well built. Pressed the stop button left handed. Size eleven, military style boots, estuary mud on the edges, soles rubbed down at the outside heels. Carrying a heavy cylindrical flashlight with razor shine at the edge. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

John pounds the stop bell so hard the driver tells him to fuck off, and John yells, "So fucking let me off then!" and has to put up with a slow crawl and a shut door and a lecture all the way to the next stop.

Christ, stops, it had been staring him in the face. Pash had said girls looking for the bus stop. Allie had said Josh worked on the corner past the bus stop. They'd gone to to all those tube stations and bus stops looking for witnesses and John hadn't put the two together. They'd passed all sorts of TfL guards and revenue collectors, and John had never looked at them twice. Public transport was just a thing in London, something to complain about but never actually really notice.

Sherlock would have fucking noticed.

John's panting for breath by the time he's run the whole way back. What few pedestrians there are give him a wide berth, which is useful in so far as it gives him a clear view of everywhere the transpo isn't. He swears under his breath and rubs at his face. Evidence. What evidence? They know the guy goes places, bus stops, through the people, look for the prostitutes and back alleys. So from here, away through the crowd means away from the shops, and not back the way he came, so. John swears again and runs across the road, barely dodging the traffic which doesn't even have the decency to use its horns.

The longer it takes to pick the man's trail back up, the less certainty John has in his conclusion. To just run into the bad guy like that by coincidence? Only, it wasn't just luck, was it? Sherlock had been picking their witnesses, picking where they went and in what order, narrowing down the location, gathering the evidence, filling John in along the way without him even really noticing --

John jerks back around the corner before they can notice him, pressed flat against the wall. He forces himself to breath slowly, quietly, then carefully edges far enough to look around. It's the same TfL officer, he's sure of it. And the guy has found a target John can't quite see, a kid in a bomber jacket he also can't quite hear, but the gist of the conversation is clear from the body language. John fumbles for his phone, intending to call Sherlock, realises there's no time for that, and starts filming instead.

So, of course, three seconds in, his cheap-ass Android piece-of-shit decides, fuck it, not going to take video any more. Buy a Pixel! And the killer and his next victim are already headed towards the darker alley, the killer's arm over the boy's shoulder and his hand on that goddamn flashlight. John says "Fuck" so loudly he doesn't know why they don't hear and sprints after them.

It's dark as fuck back here, and he almost barrels knee first into a row of black bags, slides on a discarded slick something John's really glad he can't see, and ends up crashing against the far wall, not entirely sure how he got there. A light goes on in a side-window above them. Killer and victim both look towards him and he sees matching recognition and blurts "Sherlock!" before he can stop himself. He has a fraction of a section to watch annoyance start to bloom across Sherlock's face and then the light goes out again, and all he can see is flashes of silver in the dark, so he throws himself at them, because plans are apparently things for other people now.

Something heavy smacks against his shoulder. He punches wildly. A hand grabs his wrist so hard he swears he hears his bones squeak and then it's torn away, sending him flailing. He thinks maybe Sherlock says his name, but it's hard to hear over the blood in his ears. He can make out thrashing silhouettes and jumps at the largest. Twin lines of fire cut across his chest but then he's behind the swing and the razors, using the man's arm to lever himself onto the man's back, get his arm around the killer's throat and yank back. He's smashed backwards into the wall and they rebound into the light.

Sherlock -- "explodes into action" would be the usual phrase, but it's an inadequate description of the speed and precision with which Sherlock strikes, of how to John it seems like the stiff jab of fingers to the neck, the elbow to the sternum, the punch to the gut, the kick to the knee, the stomp to the foot, all happen at once. The man starts falling. Sherlock slides back into stillness. John rides the man down. The man hits face first. Bounces. Hits again with John's whole weight behind it. John rolls away, finds a wall to pull himself up by, then a Sherlock. The man doesn't move. Blood begins to pool through the grunge on the pavement.

John hears someone say "Oh my days" in an unnaturally high pitch. It takes him way too long to realise it's his own voice.

Sherlock touches two fingers the downed man's neck, then shrugs. "Not dead." He grins suddenly. "Lucky you don't weigh more, innit."

"Fuck off," John says reflexively, but he's grinning back. "Holy shit. We did it. We fucked the bad guy."

"Phrasing," Sherlock says and then, while John is gaping at him for this, pulls a phone out of somewhere. "Gonna call it in."

While Sherlock is on his phone, John manages to coax a light out of his own. It runs the battery down with disturbing speed, but lasts long enough for him to find the dropped weapon. He bends to pick it up and winces. Now he notices it, his wrist is killing him, though it at least appears only bruised not sprained or broken. His T-shirt is a mess, but it clearly took most of the blow to his chest, because the scratches are shallow and already no longer bleeding. Though he's still going to get himself checked out at the free clinic because who knows if serial killers clean their razors between kills. And it is razors, blades taken from your average BIC and jammed in around the battery cap at the bottom of the flashlight. 

"Ingenious," he says with as much sarcasm as he can muster. He reaches out again for the weapon, decides putting his fingerprints on it any more than they might already be is stupid, and checks his pockets before sighing. "Hey, Sherlock, you have gloves?"

"Leave it," Sherlock says, folding his phone away. "John. How hurt are you?"

"I'm fine, yeah. Medical opinion or whatever." John rolls his shoulder, trying to work the ache out. Yeah, that's definitely bruised too. "What about you? Did he touch you?"

"No," Sherlock says, and it surprisingly doesn't sound like 'Of course not'. "You came back."

"Spotted him on a bus."

Sherlock kind of pauses at that and then, in a disgusted tone, asks, "You just ran into the suspect without trying?"

"Breezey, innit." John grins at him. "Always said, what you do, mostly luck."

Sherlock opens and closes his mouth for a moment, before giving up and smiling at John.

A riot van rolls up through their moment, lights flashing but no sirens, and men in black body armour jump out before it's even stopped to grab up their killer and shove him in the back. The efficiency is kind of breath-takingly creepy awesome. John is just starting to wonder why there are no "POLICE" signs on anything when the front passenger door opens and long legs slide out.

"My sweet boy!" It's not Lestrade. Of course it isn't. Though Moriarty has at least stolen her wardrobe for the occasion; Scotland Yard chic is apparently a thing now. "You do find me all the best toys."

"It's a job," Sherlock says pointedly.

Moriarty pouts a little, but hands over a brown envelope which means exactly one thing to John.

"You're getting paid?"

"Solve case, make rent." Sherlock counts the notes. Moriarty doesn't seem insulted. "Win, win, innit."

That's. That's actually a fair point, and John knows at least half of his annoyance is how much he does not like Moriarty, but. Fuck's sake, Sherlock.

"So, what--" John starts at Sherlock, realises the problem with that, and turns on Moriarty. "What happens now? What about the missing people?"

"Is that important?" Moriarty asks with apparently genuine curiosity.

"Yes! People need-- Vanishing is nothing, bruv. Vanishing is hope forever and that shit kills, yeah? People need to know."

Moriarty makes a thoughtful noise. "If it comes up in the interrogation, I'll pass it along."

"That's it?" John says to Sherlock only to discover Sherlock has somehow already left, so he says it to Moriarty instead. "That's it? You just swan in, mad gassed, swipe him up and bugger off? He vanished a bunch of people. Roadmens no one gives two shits about cause they don't know. People should know! Not just friends and fam, everyone should know this shit is going on! So it doesn't happen again! So it doesn't happen easy like!"

"Swear down?" Moriarty mocks.

"Fuck you, man," John says. "I could call Lestrade. Tell her everything. She'd try to do something, yeah?"

"I'm sure she would. But would any of it matter? Do men like this get convicted of their crimes? Have they ever?" John wants to say yes, can't, says nothing. Moriarty smiles at him like he's a puppy that's just done something adorable. "You, Master Watson, are a man that values justice -- and we both know that justice is only justice if it is effective."

Moriarty, clearly done with this, starts getting back into the van.

"You're going to kill him," John says.

Moriarty pauses with a thoughtful noise, looks back. "Maybe. That's the kind of person I am. And if I do, Master Watson, you will be able to live with that. Because that's the kind of person you are."

"I'll call Lestrade," John yells.

"Don't be boring," Moriarty lilts and John wants to punch them in their smug stupid face so hard he actually takes a step forward before he can stop himself. Moriarty laughs with their whole body, an uncomfortably attractive sound. "Toodle-pip."

The van is moving before the door is even closed. John chases it to the end of the alley but it's already gone, weaving through the traffic, leaving him all alone on the corner.

**༚#༚#༚**

The bus driver refuses his oyster card and John, having no cash left to buy a ticket and no battery to call anyone with, ends up having to walk the entire way home, a very boring few hours trek through largely unfriendly neighbourhoods. By the time he's back on the estate, he's exhausted, which he will later blame for how long it takes him to resolve the scene in his parents' flat into some kind of sense. Everyone is crowded into the main space and everyone includes Sherlock somehow because, okay, actually, John doesn't know why he's surprised at that. What he is definitely surprised at is how quickly and smoothly and silently Matt is moving around the room.

"What did you do?"

"John," Sherlock says.

"Hi," John says. "Also, what did you do?"

The arms and handles and wheels and seat shape are all different, now he looks closely. It's not just the old one oiled and cleaned. Matteen has a brand new ride.

John's mother beams at him. "Look what your lovely friend found!"

"Found," repeats John, looking at Sherlock.

"Lighter than the other, innit," Sherlock says instead of answering that. "Easier to get around, you get me."

Matteen definitely approves, whizzing between the table and their bed and back again in a donkey bray of laughter with the twins pounding along behind. There are flame decals on the back. John's surprise may actually be envy.

"He can get himself around," Sherlock says, looking at John, like he's not sure John gets it.

"Dun know," John says and Sherlock's small smile lights up his whole face.

"What you said before-- About me pretending to be human--"

"It's fine," John tries to interrupt.

"I don't pretend with you, John," Sherlock says. "I don't ever pretend with you."

He's half turned away, quiet, head down, but his eyes flick towards John and away, back and away, trying to meet John's eyes and not quite managing it and trying again anyway.

John smiles. "You always call me John."

"'syour name, innit?" Sherlock says.

"It's not--"

"It's your name," Sherlock repeats impatiently. "John. Mrs Hudson's holding the sublet for us, if you still want it. And someone's knocking off human statues along the Embankment and the Street Performers Association is offering a two grand reward, you up for it. So." He shrugs, a barely noticeable movement of his shoulders. "I'll see you downstairs, bruv, if'n you're coming."

Then he just leaves, because, yes, Sherlock does not pretend with him, and Sherlock is an awkward asshole who solves cases and saves lives and buggers off in the middle of conversations. The twins are yelling and gran is confused but smiling and Matt is laughing and Kinah is peppering everything with sarcasm and his father is holding his mother's hand and looking at her like she set the stars and his mother is looking at the wheelchair Sherlock brought, misty-eyed, and John thinks, _justice is only justice if it is effective justice_ , and, _okay,_ this _is who I am._

"So, yeah," he yells over the noise. "I'm moving out."

And, in the startled silence that follows, he smacks a kiss against his mother's cheek and runs after Sherlock.


End file.
